I am . . .

. . . tired, tired, tired. Limbs hung low like loose autumn leaves - then complaining like elderly slaves - all as if there was nothing left to seek - except, the drop down into endless sleep. Tired, tired, tired. Such terms surround me like a tomb.

Why must this I suffer this body, asks a thought? But then a rebel rumour goes round the arms - that the hands still know how to dance. That these old legs might still run for more than a bus. Maybe even for a girl, in lust or in love. And that the tired thuddings of the brain - well, that they just sum to naught. So the stereo turns up to fill the room -

- and as the feet come back from their chore (the week's rubbish left outside the door) live flesh gives the finger to dull brain. The illusion of summer's heaven - dancing round an autumn kitchen. The alarm clock, meanwhile, waits in the bedroom's corner. As reliable as ever to pound on the wrong side of seven. As ready as an office to renew morning pain.